Circle of Revenge
by 13 o'clock Erik
Summary: Revenge begets revenge. That is the way it is done. Col. Tavington's son has avenged his father's death, now what is left for him? Running from the law, what happens when young William falls for a girl he's most definately not supposed to?
1. Chapter 1

Circle of Revenge

The sequel to "His Father's Son"

Rating: M

Genre: Angst/Romance (Let's face it, that's all I write)

Summary: The deed is done, satisfaction has been had. The war is over but the unrest is not. William Tavington the second continues his life, his father's memory the driving force in his life. What happens when the unthinkable happens and he falls for someone he's most definitely not supposed to even care about?

Author's note: I had this story in my mind as I was writing _His Father's Son_. I'm sorry if you think it overly melodramatic and not plausible, but I think I'll write it just the same. Also, you may ask me _why_ in gods name am I writing a fic from the POV of a fictional son of Tavington. The simple answer is that I have an odd Father figure complex for which I am tormented mercilessly. Perhaps my father being present in body but not always in mind, had terminally effed me up. I dunnae. I'm not a psychiatrist. You decide. Also, my death scene complex… Death has fascinated me to no end since I was small. I dwell on it, I obsess over it. I write about it and subject you poor readers to the morbid and often poorly written outcome. So read on, dear literary connoisseurs!

Disclaimer: Dunnae own nuffink but the OC's you see. I don't really want to _own_ "The Patriot", after all, Mel Gibson has turned into a bit of a… well… we won't get into that. Needless to say the only characters in Patriot I like are Tavvy and Margaret.

Chapter One

"Expected Consequences"

I awoke days after I had arrived at the doorway of the Loyalist family. They told me I had been feverish for nearly a week. The exhaustion of weeks of sleepless nights, combined with Martin's lucky blow had put me out of commission.

I sat up in bed, blinking my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room. The first thing I did was search the room for my dragoon jacket and sword. Those items were all I had left of my father and I wasn't about to lose them. My heart began to pound in my chest when I could not find them in the room. Just as I was trying to pull myself out of the bed, the door swung open. A young woman, brown haired and slender of build, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, entered the room carrying a bowl of water and some towels. She saw me awake and her full lips broke out into a smile.

"Oh good! You're awake! I was _so_ very worried!" she exclaimed, setting the bowl of water down on the bedside table next to me. "How are you feeling?"

I stared at her.

"Who are you? How long have I been here?_ And where are my pants!_" I demanded, not very politely, I might add.

"My name is Emma. You've been here about a week. And your pants are in the dresser. Now, why don't you lay back and let me have a look at your wound. Why are you so restless?"

"Where are my belongings?"

"Father has them. They're safe. Why do you need them?"

I frowned at her. This little brown haired sprite asked too many questions for my liking. I struggled to stand up, but found my legs would not do my bidding.

"You lost a lot of blood before you came here, just lay back and relax." she insisted, pushing me lightly back onto the pillows.

"I'm fine. I need to leave. They'll be looking for me. I must leave-"

She held me easily down, pulling the blankets up over me.

"You're fine are you? You can't even stand, much less ride a horse. And they are looking for you. They came by not an hour after you came to us, searched the whole house but father was smart, he hid you in the cellar. When they left he moved you up here. They've come back a few times since then and we kept them away by saying we were nursing a sick family member." she said all this very fast. "I'm Emma Mitchell. My father is Arthur Mitchell, he knew your grandfather. Oooh wait till Sissy and Phillipa hear that we have a _real live_ British fugitive in the house! They'll be so upset that they went to visit Grandmother!"

Again, I frowned at the baffling young woman in front of me. She continued to chirp on cheerfully as she went about cleaning the deep gash in my side. She babbled on an on about her sister and how jealous they would be to find they had missed out on meeting me and how her father had such high hopes for her. I just stared at her throughout the entire one-sided conversation. She finished bandaging my side and stood up.

"You haven't said a word this whole time. Is there anything I can get for you?" she asked cheerfully.

"I…Tell your father I would like my jacket and sword back, please."

"Oh! Is that all? We were just going to have you coat washed-"

"NO!" I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in bed and wincing as my side twinged painfully.

"No what?"

"Do not wash that coat! Whatever you do! Please!" I beseeched her.

She stared at me for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the door.

"Alright then. I'll tell Father. If he hasn't already had it cleaned."

"Please…"

Emma looked at me once more, a long searching look, before turning and going down the stairs. I sighed deeply and sank back into my pillow. About ten minutes later she came back, my father's red and green dragoon jacket was folded over her arm. I struggled to sit back up and held out my arms to receive it.

"Thank you." I said softly.

The girl looked from me to the jacket and back to me.

"First tell me what's so important about this old thing."

I glared at her, anger flaring up inside me. It was _my_ coat. _My_ possession she had her filthy traitor hands all over. I tried to tell myself to stay calm, reminding myself that even if the Mitchell's had stayed after the Seperatists had won, they had cared for me when I was unconscious.

"It has… sentimental value, to me."

Emma stepped closer to me.

"What kind of sentimental value?"

My patience was growing thin; she was a few feet from the bed, just out of my reach. I frowned at her darkly. I wanted my father's jacket.

"It belonged to my father." I said shortly, my hands still outstretched to receive the article of clothing.

"Belonged?"

"Yes, belonged. He was killed. In battle. This and his sword are all I have left of him. Now please, may I have it back?"

She smiled suddenly and handed me the jacket. My fingers clenched in the rough material as I held it tightly. I lay it on the pillow next to my head and held onto it as if it were a blanket.

"I've got to go into the stores with my father. We'll be gone fore several hours. Martha will be here if you need anything. She's the house servant. Just call her and she will come." Emma said softly.

And then she did the last thing I expected. She leaned close to me and kissed my cheek. Her lips were soft against my unshaven face, she smelled overly sweet; like too much honeysuckle. Emma laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, giving me a long look before leaving the room and closing the door softly behind her.

When I heard her footsteps going down the hall, I sighed a deep shuddering sigh. I turned my face into my fathers jacket; inhaling the scent of sweat, gunpowder, blood, and the faint smell of his cologne. They say that smell evokes the strongest memories… Perhaps that is true…

I remembered back to my sixth or seventh birthday, he had come home on leave and swept me up onto his shoulder. I remember my mother fretting about like a nervous hen as my father swung me around effortlessly. He took me out riding on our property, placing me in the saddle in front of him, allowing me to hold the reigns every now and again... Even the cruelest of men have families…

The noise of the streets outside my window broke me from my reverie. Horses and carriages went by on the cobblestone street. People talked and yelled below my window. I shut my eyes and pulled the jacket around me and willed myself to sleep, as if in simply dreaming, he could be there with my mother and I; a family once more.

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	2. Chapter 2

Title: Circle of Revenger

Sequel to "His Father's Son"

Rating: M (So go away kidlets!)

Summary: The deed is done, satisfaction has been had. The war is over but the unrest is not. William Tavington the second continues his life, his father's memory the driving force in his life. What happens when the unthinkable happens and he falls for someone he's most definitely not supposed to even care about?

A/N: This story is like one of those boils you get on your chin, you know? You know you're not supposed to pick at it cause it'll scar, but it's just so bloody annoying! It _has_ to be done!

Disclaimer: Dunnae own nuffink but the OC's you see. I don't really want to _own_ "The Patriot", after all, Mel Gibson has turned into a bit of a… well… we won't get into that. Needless to say the only characters in Patriot I like are Tavvy and Margaret.

&$$&

Chapter Two

"Slow Burn"

I again awoke to daylight. Emma was sitting beside my bed with a book on her lap and a cup of tea next to her. She yet hadn't seen that I had awoken so I watched her silently. Her lips moved ever so slightly as she read, she brushed back errant curls from her face. One hand strayed across to cover her heart.

"What are you reading?" I asked, breaking the silence.

She jumped slightly.

"Shakespeare." she said, her voice shaking slightly.

"Any Shakespeare in particular?"

"Sonnets."

"Ahh."

"I'm sorry I woke you." she said, looking abashed.

"You didn't wake me. Besides, I've been asleep far too long anyway." I smiled, for the first time in a long while.

She gave me a hesitant smile. This was odd. When I had first met Emma she had babbled almost incessantly. Now I was struggling to get her to speak.

"Did you have a good shopping excursion?" I asked tentatively. "I'm a little disoriented. Was it yesterday or today...?"

"It was yesterday. And yes, I did. Father allowed me some new dresses and things."

"That's… good."

"How are you feeling?"

I dare not voice my true feelings. That I would rather stay in this bed and waste away to nothing, just to be with my father. Instead I spoke out, saying I was ready to get out of bed and 'seize the day'.

"Carpe diem…" I murmured at the end of my outburst.

"Are you quite sure?" she asked worriedly.

"Yes ma'am, I'm quite sure. If you'll hand me my clothing…"

She blushed, handing me my trousers and shirt. Emma afforded me a few moments alone to dress. I winced slightly as I stretched the healing skin of my side. I slid on my breeches and shirt, Emma knocked hesitantly on the door.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Yes. I'm… decent."

The heavy wooden door creaked open and Emma slipped in.

"Father says you may join us for dinner, if it pleases you."

I bit my lip and stared at her. I hadn't intended on staying such a long time but if the old man would allow me to stay… I wasn't fully healed and I shuddered to think what would happen if I were identified by Martin's eldest daughter.

"Erm… Very well."

I reached toward my father's jacket, her eyes darted to the garment and she seemed a little disappointed. I ignored her obvious disapproval, easing myself into the jacket and straightening it self-consciously.

"I have a little money. I can repay your father for the room and board. Even for your care. Is there anything you want or need? Something I can get for you?" I asked uncertainly as I stepped into my worn, leather, riding boots.

Emma ducked her head demurely, nothing like the spirited girl I had grown accustomed to.

"I…" she started, then she blushed furiously red. "There's nothing I want that my father cannot get for me."

She turned and led me down a dimly lit passage to the stairs, the old wooden steps creaked as I leaned on the railing. The yellow candlelight flickered, casting a golden hue onto Emma's face and throat. I stared, almost hungrily, at the young woman in front of me. She caught me staring and I could see her face flush.

"Dinner is in an hour. My father wished to speak with you…"

My face fell and she noticed it.

"Don't worry," she said. "he just wants to ask you about how you came to us."

I nodded solemnly as Emma opened the door to the study.

"Father," she called softly in. "Col. Tavington to see you."

There was a muffled reply and Emma nodded at me. Hesitantly, I walked through the door and into the dimly lit study.

"Come closer, my boy." a voice spoke from a chair beside the fire.

I obeyed and went to stand in front of the wing-tipped chair.

"Ahhh… so it's true. William did have a son…"

"Yes sir." I replied coldly but politely.

Mr Mitchell was an elderly man, much older than my father had been. His face was leathery and wrinkled and coloured like parchment. The old man stood, leaning heavily on an oak cane. He gazed into my face, as if searching for something.

"You look very much like him." he murmured. "Yes… the resemblance is almost… unnerving."

I stayed silent, not trusting myself to speak.

"I have asked you here to find out why, exactly, you are on the run. Do not lie to me, boy. I will know."

"I killed a man, sir." I replied flatly, not even blinking.

He paused, squinting at me in the firelight.

"Under what circumstances? Were you protecting yourself?"

"No sir."

"Whom did you kill?"

"Benjamin Martin."

Realization flooded Mitchell's face.

"Oh my dear boy…" he breathed. "The rumours of your father's death-"

"Were true. And I have avenged his death." I interrupted.

He stared at me, it was becoming unsettling to have him scrutinizing me this way.

"I cannot say that I approve, but I can understand… Your father was not a particularly kind man, you understand that, don't you?"

"Yes sir. But he was still my father."

He sat down heavily in his chair, then motioned for me to sit down on the footstool. I did so, staring blindly into the scarlet flames in the stone fireplace.

"If they come for you again… I do not know if I can protect you."

I didn't answer. The fire danced like a gypsy, swirling and bending in a sensual ballet. I suddenly felt very tired and my side ached, though it was mostly healed by now. My hand traveled under my jacket to my wound, fingering it gingerly.

"My daughter… She cares for you." Mr Mitchell said uneasily.

"Does she?" I replied offhandedly.

"I will not see her harmed. Your father's reputation precedes you. I know what was said of him-"

I leapt to my feet, anger coursing through my veins.

"My father _never _had extramarital relations! _Never_! My parents loved one another!"

Breathing heavily, I began to pace.

"A-alright, son. Alright. I believe you. But all the same, I will not see my daughter harmed."

"What are you asking of me?" I demanded.

"I only ask that you… do not hurt her. She has good prospects for marriage. She comes from a good family and she will have some money. She must marry someone…"

"Worthy." I finished bitterly. "And I am not."

"Well yes…"

"Fear not, sir. I will be out of your house within the week. Your daughter's virtues are safe from me."

Mr Mitchell heaved himself to his feet. He hobbled over to me and placed a callused hand on my shoulder.

"It is not you I worry about, my boy. It is her I am concerned about."

I sighed heavily, my shoulder slumped.

"Sir, I have successfully completed the task I set for myself. Were I to die now, I would die happy.

He frowned at me, another disapproving look on another face. I ran a hand through my greasy hair in irritation and disgust.

"I'll go. I'll leave this evening. Just give me time to pack my bags and-"

"Don't be foolish boy! They'd capture you in an instant! This town is crawling in militia, and Martin was a well loved hero." the old man interrupted. "Besides. My two other daughters will be here in a few days and they are both eager to meet you. Lucy and Phillipa are most eager."

I gave the elderly man a frown, but nodded slightly.

"Very well, if that is what you order me to do. I shall obey."

He chuckled.

"You can take the boy out of the army, but you can't take the army out of the boy." He said with a genuine smile on his wrinkled face.

I looked enraged. _Boy_? I'd killed my share of men towards the end of the war. Hadn't I killed Benjamin Martin _in cold blood_! Surely I had earned the right to be called "man".

Mr Mitchell seemed to sense my rage but merely grinned at me. He clapped an old weathered hand on my shoulder and steered me from the room.

"Come on, young Tavington. Dinner awaits us, as does my daughter."

I scowled in return.

&$&

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	3. Chapter 3

Title: Circle of Revenge

Sequel to "His Father's Son"

Rating: M (Go away little kiddies! Ha. Just kidding. If you're thirteen and want to read this, be my guest. Nothing I can do to stop you.)

Summary: The deed is done, satisfaction has been had. The war is over but the unrest is not. William Tavington the second continues his life, his father's memory the driving force in his life. What happens when the unthinkable happens and he falls for someone he's most definitely not supposed to even care about?

A/N: Uhm… Cabbage? Anyway, apart from cabbage, in this chapter you will find weakness. Have you ever woken up and felt loss? I've had that happen… and it's in here so ya…

Disclaimer: Dunnae own nuffink but the OC's you see. I don't really want to _own_ "The Patriot", after all, Mel Gibson has turned into a bit of a… well… we won't get into that. Needless to say the only characters in Patriot I like are Tavvy and Margaret.

&$&

Chapter Three

"Under Pressure"

Dinner went by uneventfully. Mr Mitchell regaled us with stories of himself and my father. Emma laughed, a high crystalline sound that assaulted my ears. I remained in tight-lipped silence as I picked at my meal of chicken, dumplings, and vegetables. After a while, I stood up and asked to be excused. I was suddenly unbearably weary. Mr Mitchell laughingly dismissed me and I walked out of the room without another word.

My side burned painfully as I fell into my bed, my hand strayed to the healing gash, touching it gingerly. Sleep claimed me quickly and suddenly I was watching a terrible scene play out in my mind.

"_My son was a better man." A younger looking Martin was saying._

_His filthy hand held my father's shoulder tightly. The other hand held a bayonet. The sharp steel gleamed in the sunlight. My father's eyes showed a mixture of hatred, defiance, and fear. Without so much as a single hesitation, Benjamin Martin thrust the bayonet into my father's throat._ _My father let out a choked cry, falling forward as blood streamed forth from his lips. His face, pale and bloodied, seemed to jump out at me._

"_William, why!" his voice echoed in my mind._

"FATHER!" I screamed, bolting upright in my bed.

The first thing I was aware of was terrible loss. It seemed that for the first time since my father's death, everything had finally sunk in. Tears streamed down my cheeks in hot torrents. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed.

"Father… Father! NO!"

And suddenly she was there. Emma in her nightgown and shawl, mobcap upon her dark curls and a candle in her hand.

"William? Are you alright?"

I couldn't answer for my grief choked me and made speech impossible.

"Oh William…" she murmured sadly.

Immediately she set down the candle and sat down beside me, enfolding me in her slim arms and stroking my sweaty hair.

"Poor William." she whispered.

She rocked me like a small child, awakened by a bad dream. I cried until I was breathless. The loss of my father overtook me, ingraining itself into every aspect of myself. I wanted him back. I wanted my mother back. I wanted to go back to being a silly little English rich boy, riding horses with my father and having tea in the afternoon. I wanted to forget ever having murdered men in cold blood.

"Papa…" Emma said suddenly.

Her father stood in the doorway, a look split between disapproval and pity on his face. He sighed, then turned from us, closing the heavy door behind him.

"Oh William…" Emma sighed, still holding me.

I let myself go limp against her. I was exhausted. My face felt hot. Emma wiped away the last of my tears and gently eased me from her arms. She stroked back my wet hair and tucked me back into bed.

"Sleep, dear William. It'll be better in the morning."

_It'll be better in the morning._

How I wished that were true…

&$#$&

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